White women's eyes flash in
Trickle-down smiles,
Outlined in nacre and kohl.
The fact that she turns forty once every year
Is not why she never grows old.
They won't die, they won't die!
By the skin of my thighs,
A new crop pops up every year!
With an antebellum name
And a draped-in-lace frame,
They grow up with poison in their ears.
Where am I going and where have I been,
And where do I find myself now,
But that same debutantes' court of white sin,
Wiping white tears from my brow?